


Love Potion Number Nine

by sweetmel



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Boston Red Sox, First Time, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 00:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11325303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetmel/pseuds/sweetmel
Summary: Brock stays awake way later than he should after everyone clears out. With each passing second since Benny left, the nausea and dizziness have been creeping back. Although he finally nods off, Brock wakes up feeling like he's been hit by a bus, worse than he's felt since the day this started. The team left for a West Coast road trip - their first since Brock was cursed - early that morning.“Fuck,” Brock says, feeling off kilter in a way that has little to do with how the room is spinning around him.





	Love Potion Number Nine

The last thing going through Brock’s mind is magic.

 

Sure, he knows just as well as anyone how magic-induced injuries feel just like the real thing (his wrist got a bad sprain his senior year that went away in the blink between the team healer placing her hands on him and lifting them away). But the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and when Brock wakes up the morning after a rough game feeling woozy and concussed, he figures it's just another concussion.

 

The team healers disagree.

 

“Our magic meter over there,” Tom says, jerking his head towards Mookie, who's lingering in the door of the training room with a grimace on his face like someone's held putrid meat under his nose, “says you're lit up like a Christmas tree.”

 

“I'm gonna have a migraine after this,” Mookie yells, and Brock hisses, a sharp intake of breath through his teeth.

 

“Do you know what it is?” Brock asks, fingers digging into the pleather of the training table to ground him against another wave of nausea and dizziness.

 

Tom makes a noncommittal noise under his breath that says more than words ever could.

 

Brock sighs.

 

*

“Aren't we under like, a million protective spells?” Benny asks, his nose wrinkling in confusion as he opens, Jesus Christ, a fifth packet of barbecue sauce.

 

“And anti-hexes, and poison prevention tablets once a month, and all our gear is charmed within an inch of its life,” Brock confirms. His own waffle fries and chicken sandwich go mostly untouched after a few bites - it's hard to eat when the floor is constantly wobbling underneath him.

 

“So?” Benny says, eyes wide with concern. “What gives?”

 

“Well, they don't fucking know, do they,” Brock snaps, and he feels terrible even as Benny blinks in surprise at his sudden harshness. “Sorry, I didn't mean -”

 

“Hey, it's okay,” Benny says with a grin, reaching out to touch Brock’s arm briefly, giving it a squeeze before pulling it back to his side of the booth. “Just--know the team’s really gonna miss you.”

 

“I dunno, they got some hotshot rookie,” Brock says with a grin, and Andrew laughs, nose crinkling with pleasure this time. Brock eats a few waffle fries, then the rest of his chicken sandwich, as whatever magic has its claws in him decides to ease up enough for him to eat.

*

As far as anyone knows, Brock has a concussion, and it's not like the protocol is all that different: a lot of waiting around and resting; a lot of throwing things at the problem and hoping they stick; a lot of not playing baseball.

 

The symptoms come and go, which also seem to baffle the healers and the specialist they brought in from Salem. Brock will feel fine when he's at Fenway one hour, then unable to drive home by the time they're done prodding at him. Being stuck at home is almost universally a torture, with his symptoms ranging from “I've had 10 shots in the last two hours” to “on the nearest flat surface for the foreseeable future.”

 

“There's no rhyme or reason,” one of the healers says like it's Brock’s fault the organization's best and brightest have failed him. Brock grits his teeth and tries not to throw up as he stands up from the exam table.

 

The only bright spots, it seems, are when his teammates visit. Mookie still can't get within 10 feet of him without getting a blinding migraine, but he sends along treats with a goofy, heartfelt note about outfielder solidarity.

 

“He hates that he can't be here,” Benny says, “said to give you this--” and then Benny’s wrapping his strong arms around Brock in a big, gentle hug.

 

“The fuck, dude,” Hanley barks, “he's gotten his brain fucked with, don't make his balance worse.”

 

Benny jumps back with a sheepish look as he squeezes Brock’s shoulder. “Shit, dude, I'm sorry, are you alright?”

 

Brock laughs. “Yeah, I'm fine,” he says, and he's shocked to find he means it - he's actually fine, feels like he could go run a mile without any problem, and it's disorienting in its own way, to be suddenly well after weeks of no answers. “I'm cursed, not dying,” Brock says to general laughter.

 

He stays awake way later than he should after everyone clears out. With each passing second since Benny left, the nausea and dizziness have been creeping back, and although he finally nods off, Brock wakes up feeling like he's been hit by a bus, worse than he's felt since the day this started. The team left for a West Coast road trip - their first since Brock was cursed - early that morning.

 

“Fuck,” Brock says, feeling off kilter in a way that has little to do with how the room is spinning around him.

 

*

The thing is, Brock figures as he sets his stuff down in Benny’s locker - his own’s been cleared out for the kid they brought up to replace him - the thing is, if it were anybody else this wouldn't be a problem. He'd laugh it up with Hanley or Mookie or Jackie, tell them some witch clearly had matchmaker designs. They'd snuggle, or kiss, or -- Brock’s brain won't let him go further than that -- or whatever and then be done with it. He's confident every single one of his teammates would have no hard feelings and no trouble forgetting about it.

 

The thing is, Brock thinks as Benny comes up to his locker and lights up with a grin when he sees Brock, Brock wouldn't want to forget about it with Andrew.

 

“Are you here to stay?” Benny asks with a childlike enthusiasm that makes Brock's heart hurt.

 

“No, just - trying something new,” Brock says with a tight smile. Benny’s face falls. “Feeling a hell of a lot better right now, though.”

 

“Good,” Benny says, clapping a hand on his shoulder, and Brock feels the force of it magnified through his whole body.

 

The game that night is the most normal he's felt in weeks, and Brock dreads going home. Tom the Healer notices because he's a sneaky son of a bitch.

 

“Feeling alright here, huh?” Tom says before making a considering hum under his breath that Brock does not like at all.

 

*

“I'm glad you can travel with us,” Andrew says blearily from where he's leaned up against the side of the plane, buried under a large Red Sox blanket with his hair sticking up everywhere.

 

Brock’s just glad the healers bought his theory about team magic dimming the effects of the curse. They're all stumbling around in the dark, so it made as much sense as anything. Certainly as much sense as Benny’s presence being Brock’s cure.

 

“Me too,” Brock says, stealing a corner of the blanket to drape over his legs, and if Benny minds that their legs are pressed together in the airplane seat, he doesn't say.

 

When they land, Benny blinks awake with a yawn and a smile and Brock wishes he could blame the magic for his heart skipping a beat.

 

*

Later, he doesn't know if it's the fact that he was used to being close to Benny that made the symptoms come on so strong and so quickly, or if the magic is just getting stronger over time. Either way, Brock’s leaned over the side of the bed and retching into the hotel wastebasket when Benny comes back in.

 

“Brock?” Benny asks, and Brock can feel him hovering, uncertain if Brock wants privacy or company.

 

“Come here,” Brock says, raspy and too miserable to be shy or coy about what he needs. Benny being in the room helps enough to settle his stomach but Brock still wants him close, just to keep the room from spinning.

 

When Benny’s weight rests on the mattress, Brock turns instinctively towards him. Benny makes a shushing sound and presses a plastic cup of water into Brock’s hand. Brock sips it and feels pathetic, reduced to nothing just from Benny leaving the room.

 

“Need the healer?” Andrew asks quietly, and Brock shakes his head - a mistake, as he blinks away spots in his eyes. When Benny’s face comes back into focus, he's wearing a skeptical expression in the dim light of the room.

 

“Happens sometimes,” Brock says honestly. “But if-- can i--?”

 

Brock doesn't know how to ask, so he just lifts his hand and rests it softly against Andrew's head, the jolt of contact echoing again in a now-familiar way. Andrew smiles softly and nods, snuggling down into the pillows as Brock starts running his fingers through Andrew's hair.

 

“You know I like it when you play with my hair,” Andrew murmurs. “Not sure how it helps you, though.”

 

“Relaxing,” Brock says, which is also true. Andrew hums as Brock’s fingers scritch against his scalp.

*

 

The enforced togetherness of the road trip means Brock is wholly unprepared for getting back to Boston - for being out of Andrew’s presence for the first time in nearly a week. Brock’s got the good sense to call a cab, and he thinks for a second he's going to pass out as they weave through Boston's back streets, but he manages to make it home fully conscious. How he gets inside and in bed, Brock isn't sure, but at least the ordeal is exhausting enough that he falls asleep almost immediately.

 

When he wakes up he feels terrible again, and it takes all his considerable willpower to not text Benny to ask him to come over. He's already been glued to his side since he figured it out - and, Brock thinks as he runs a hand over his face, it's probably a mark of something that no one's commented on that or found it unusual. Not even Benny.

 

“Jesus, Holt, get it together,” Brock mutters to himself before making himself get out of bed to use the bathroom.

 

They're supposed to have a game today, but Brock calls the healers and they agree it's best if he stays home. “Not sure that road trip was the best idea, son,” Tom grumbles, and Brock bites back the retort that it was coming home that did him in.

 

Brock has to sit down in the shower, hot water pouring over him as he grips the side of the tub and breathes deeply. He's still miserable when he gets out, but at least he's clean. He drags a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water into his den and flops on his couch with no plans to move from that spot the rest of the day. If he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, he gets enough equilibrium to focus on the audio of House Hunters, and he tries to convince himself it's not so bad.

 

As the morning turns into early afternoon, Brock actually sits up for a few minutes, making himself eat beef jerky while he has the appetite. The minor miracle of food is broken up by a sudden, frantic knocking on his door.

 

Brock steadies himself as he stands, and something about the way he gets his balance back so quickly means he's not as shocked as he should be to find Benny on his stoop.

 

“Brock,” Andrew says, panting and bending down with his hands on his knees to catch his breath before straightening out. Brock feels more centered already, just with Andrew here, but there's a look in his eye that has Brock nervous.

 

“Aren't you supposed to be at the game -- and Jesus Christ, did you run here from the stadium?” Brock says, pulling him inside - literally wrapping his fingers around Benny’s shirt and hauling him inside. Everything's just-- better when they're touching, the earth stops spinning long enough for Brock to think.

 

He clears his throat and makes himself let go of Benny’s shirt, but Benny catches his hand. “You're gonna think I'm crazy,” Benny says with a grin.

 

“That train left the station a long time ago,” Brock mutters, but he's entirely focused on how warm Benny’s hand is as it wraps around his, how solid Benny’s chest is as he pulls Brock’s hand to rest against it.

 

“Do you trust me?” Benny asks, and Brock huffs out a laugh before making himself look Benny in the eyes.

 

“You know I do,” Brock says, and he can feel Andrew's heart racing in his chest. It's the most clear-headed Brock’s felt in weeks.

 

Andrew nods, and then he's leaning--

 

If touching Andrew was grounding, kissing him is like an anchor, rooting Brock right where he is. The world is Andrew's lips, gentle and soft and shy, and Brock doesn't know if it's the magic-induced vertigo or something else that makes his vision lurch when Andrew pulls away. “It’s a love spell,” Andrew says softly. “That's how they got you. We aren't - or we weren't - protected against those.”

 

Brock’s sure those words will mean more to him later, when he isn't staring at Andrew's mouth as Andrew nervously licks his lips. “Are you--do you feel--different?” Andrew asks, and Brock leans forward to kiss him again.

 

Brock’s had his taste and wants it all, now, chasing after whatever Andrew will give him - which is a lot, Andrew's mouth opening up sweet and needy. When Brock licks inside his mouth, Andrew's choked off whimper rattles through him, echoing in his chest and making him sway.

 

Andrew’s big hands come up to grip his shoulders, steadying. “Woah,” he says, “this was supposed to make you better, not worse.”

 

 _It's not the magic, it's you,_ Brock wants to say. _I've wanted this for longer than I've been drunk dizzy all the time,_ Brock doesn't say, either. “Bed?” Brock says instead, and he doesn't miss how Andrew's eyes widen and his red mouth falls open.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Andrew says, recovering with a grin. “Yeah, that's -- good thinking--”

 

Brock keeps his hand laced with Andrew's as they get into his room. They tumble on the bed together, and Andrew seems at a loss again as they roll to face each other, holding hands and legs tangled together after they kick off their shoes. “So is this - does this help?” Andrew asks, his eyes wide and unreadable.

 

Brock lets his eyes drift shut as one hand goes to card through Benny’s hair. They've done this, at least, before, solid ground when everything is falling down and being remade, and Brock can feel how it settles Benny as much as it does him. “You always help,” Brock says quietly.

 

“Oh,” Benny says, and Brock opens his eyes to watch the predictable flush spread across Andrew's cheeks.

 

“You - you have to want this,” Brock says, and the wave of nausea comes crashing back. Brock spares a moment to hate whoever did this to him, whoever made his long odds with Benny even more high-risk. “It’s not-- you're not medicine, I can't just use you for this and then -- pretend like it never happened.”

 

Andrew, at least, looks serious even as he clearly is nervous as all hell. “I could never pretend that,” he says quietly, and something like joy flares up in Brock’s chest.

 

“I've, uh,” Andrew says, squirming a little, “I've-- I mean, I would do this -- without the curse,” Andrew says haltingly, his face bright red, but he's looking right at Brock, brown eyes blazing with the truth of it.

 

“Which part?” Brock asks.

 

“Any of it,” Andrew says immediately, “all of it, Brock, come on--”

 

There's no shyness to their kisses, now, now that Brock knows it's not some altruistic impulse keeping Andrew in his bed, making the sweetest noises against his mouth. Brock rolls them over so he's lying across Andrew's broad chest, reveling in how he feels steady and on-balance. It's quite something, too, to note the line of Andrew’s cock in his shorts. Brock’s grinning as he presses his hand against it and watches Andrew gasp and arch into the touch.

 

“Have you ever?” Brock asks, and cuts off Andrew's sputter of indignation with another gentle press. “With a guy?”

 

Andrew draws a shuddering breath. “Once,” he says, “once and it was--it doesn't matter, just fucking touch me--”

 

Brock slides his hands up Andrew's shirt as he sits up enough for Brock to tug it off. He's seen Andrew in the showers, in the weight room, but it's different when the strong, warm muscles of Andrew’s chest and stomach are under his hands, his mouth, as he kisses his way down. Andrew's cock is hot against his cheek, the fabric of his gym soft as he rubs his face against it. The noise Andrew makes is - gratifying.

 

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” Andrew says, and Brock looks up with a grin as he slides Andrew's shorts down.

 

It's been a long time since Brock’s done this, but Andrew's hips are twitching, like he's trying to keep from fucking Brock’s mouth, so Brock must be doing something right. Andrew's hands are pulling at Brock’s sheets, and Brock reaches up with his hands to lace their fingers together as he starts to bob his head in earnest, the head of Andrew's dick nudging the back of his throat. Every point of contact feels electric, like Brock can't get close enough, and he honestly doesn't know if that's the magic or just how it's going to be, with Andrew. Brock lifts one of Andrew’s hands to the back of his head, and Andrew lets it rest there, gently, before running his fingers through Brock’s hair. He's not pushing, not guiding, just enjoying the feel of the strands against his fingers, and the simple pleasure of the touch makes Brock moan around Andrew's cock.

 

“Shit, Brock --” Andrew says, squeezing Brock’s hand still laced with his in warning. Brock pulls off with an obscene pop that makes Andrew moan, and his hand works Andrew over until his back and shoulders lift off the bed as he comes.

 

Brock’s got a mess on his hand, and Andrew's got a mess on his stomach, but Brock doesn't care as he surges up to kiss Andrew. Andrew groans and his entire body twitches, hypersensitive, as Brock grinds his cock against Andrew's thigh. Brock wants to make this last, but as he rests his forehead against Andrew's and pants, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm, he knows he won't be able to.

 

“Wanna suck you off,” Benny says softly, and Brock swears, grinding down hard, as Benny’s hands stroke up and down his back, sliding up under his shirt. “Never done it, but I've thought about it a lot--”

 

“Yeah?” Brock says, bringing a thumb up to rest against Andrew's lower lip. “When?”

 

“All the time,” Benny says with a grin, sticking his tongue out to lick teasingly at Brock’s thumb. “When you wore sweatpants, when you got out of the showers, when I was in the shower at home jerking off--”

 

The thought of Andrew at home, head tilted back as he strokes his cock under the hot spray of the shower, thinking about Brock’s dick in his mouth, is what pushes Brock over the edge. He's still wearing his damn shorts, paying the price for being too over eager by making a mess inside them as he rolls his hips against Benny. Benny presses sweet kisses to his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead as the aftershocks roll through, and it's everything Brock can do to roll to the side instead of collapsing on top of him. There's a moment where it's quiet but for the two of them panting, Brock tracing patterns on Benny’s bare chest with his fingers, before they both look at each other with a grin.

 

“I gotta get cleaned up,” Brock says, moving gingerly in his shorts as he gets out of bed. He waits for the disorientation, the nausea, but it never comes. He looks down at Benny in surprise, and Benny beams back up at him, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile.

 

*

Later, much later - after they've showered together and Brock figures out Andrew really is a natural at sucking cock - they're lying in bed, Benny curled up against Brock’s chest as Brock runs his fingers up and down Benny’s back.

 

“How’d you figure it out?” Brock asks, and Benny mumbles something incoherent. Brock smiles and figures he'll get the answer when Benny’s less tired. Benny rallies, though, shifting and turning his head so he's not talking against Brock’s skin.

 

“‘S when you played with my hair,” Andrew says. “You don't--I mean, the other guys do it to, but you played with it like you were gonna die if you stopped. So I figure it must have helped which didn't make sense unless --”

 

“I felt like I was gonna die if I stopped,” Brock says, running a hand slowly through Benny’s curls. Benny smiles, then lays his head back down to go to sleep.

 

*

_Coda_

“So you're better,” Tom says, giving Brock his most evaluative look, and Brock swallows nervously. “But you won't say why. And you won't let me image your aura.”

 

“Yeah, that's, that's it,” Brock says with a forced grin. “Guess I just got lucky?”

 

“Yo, Holt,” Andrew says, ducking his head into the training room. “John wants to see you in the next 20, something about teaching you how to hit a baseball again?”

 

Brock grins and rolls his eyes. “Tell him I'm there as soon as the warlock lets me go.”

 

Benny giggles - honest to god giggles - then heads on his way. By the time his attention is on Tom again, the man's expression has softened entirely and he looks a little - watery?

 

“I'll be,” Tom says, fishing out a handkerchief from his pocket as Brock looks on in horror. “Son, that's - I'm real happy for you two.”

 

“What,” Brock says, but Tom blows his nose with a loud honk.

 

“Course, it all makes sense, now,” Tom says with a smile. “True love’s first kiss is the most powerful magic of them all.”

 

Brock can feel his face turning bright pink and he has no idea what to say, but Tom just laughs and shakes his head.

  
“Go on, don't keep your skipper waiting,” Tom says, all but shooing him out of the training room, and that, at least, feels familiar enough that Brock doesn't feel totally weirded out by the time he gets to batting practice.

**Author's Note:**

> I CANNOT BELIEVE I WROTE THIS WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS. I'm deeply disappointed in the entire city of Boston for making me do this. I'm a Braves fan, for God's sake. I had to Google the name of the manager of the team. Go, now that your eyes have been opened, and write more about Brock and his not very low key or subtle obsession with Benny. Their Instagrams are a great place to start. 
> 
> If I had infinite time I would write a long, sprawling magical realism epic about baseball where teams have to manage their own players' magic and the effects of others. (I literally don't know enough about the Red Sox to determine what kind of magic everyone would have, oops, but someone should take this idea and run with it). 
> 
> Special thanks to DefineStrange, luciferinasundaysuit, and gericault for encouraging this behavior.


End file.
